Artart collecting

The Bidodo

The Bidodo was a shapeshifter.

He wasn’t born that way. He learned it from one of the maids that raised him.

The Bidodo was a product of privileged neglect. He spoke English, Spanish and a secret language only cats understood.

The Bidodo was sometimes a metalhead drummer who drank cheap American beer. After 12 or so cans the yeast count in his mouth would turn his tongue chartreuse.

All the better to lick the goat’s ass and make the dog pay, he would say.

One hot summer night several of us were at Bidodo’s loft in DTLA. There was a film crew outside on the street below. The set lights had been glaring through his windows since before the sun came up. It was now dark and Bidodo had enough. He opened all the windows and started a serious metal jam on his drums.

We would watch the crew stop and wait for the drums to stop. Then the film crew would attempt to shoot again. And the drums would start. This went on for about an hour. Bidodo’s relentless double kick shut the film shoot down for the night. The director yelled up at us, “You win!”

That dog paid.

The Bidodo was sometimes inhabited by an ancient troll. This was revealed during a mushroom trip at our basement loft in the old church half a block from Skid Row.

When Bidodo was high on mushrooms his edges got real fuzzy. He’d want to listen to mom rock and get silly. On this particular occasion, he insisted on hearing Silly Love Songs by Paul McCartney and Wings. The intro with with the clanking and tug boat honks bewitched Bidodo. I watched his entire countenance change. His shoulders hunched creating a hump out of his thoracic vertebrae. The pelvis decoupled from the spine and slipped forward about 3 inches. He started to chant, “Hooo AHHH Hee AHHH.” And then laughed maniacally as he was trotting around the loft.

“Play it again, Lloyd!,” he laughed.

We stopped laughing after the 5th play through. Trolls are annoying like that.

The Bidodo was also a confessor of sins. His confessional was any cat that would listen. It started out rather innocently. He would pet the cat and talk softly. It would start with the usual stuff people talk to cats about. “Who’s a good Caboodle?” Or, “Hello Cosmo, how was your day?” Eventually the cat would end up in his arms and he would be speaking in tongues and stroking fur.

This would go on for hours. I have no idea what sort of hex he’d cast upon the cats that made them sit with him so long. Whatever it was, it was some powerful stuff.

No one ever knew what sort of horrors the Bidodo confessed to the kitties. One thing was sure, those kitties who were confessionals would run and hide at the mere mention of “Bidodo.”

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